tion, the others from blessings of
every kind with which Heaven has bedecked our existence. Do not, I
implore you, Henri, cast the mortal poison of the retreat you speak of
upon our family happiness; think how our father would be grieved at it;
think, too, how all of us would bear on our countenances the dark
reflection of the bitter mortification you are about to inflict upon us.
I beseech yon, Henri, to allow yourself to be persuaded; the cloister
will not benefit you.

"I do not say that you will die there, for, misguided man, your answer
will be a smile, which alas, would be only too intelligible for me. No,
believe me that the cloister is more fatal to you than the tomb. The
tomb annihilates but life itself, the cloister annihilates intelligence;
the cloister bows the head, instead of raising it to heaven; the cold,
humid atmosphere of the vaults passes by degrees into the blood, and
penetrates the very marrow of the bones, changing the cloistered recluse
into another granite statue in the convent. My brother, my dear brother,
take heed; our time here below is but brief; youth visits us but once in
our lives. The bright years of our earlier days will pass away too, for
you are under the influence of a deep-seated grief; but at thirty years
of age you will have become a man, the vigor of maturity will have then
arrived; it will hurry away with it all that remains of your wornout
sorrow, and then you will wish to live over again; but it will be too
late. Then, too, you will have grown melancholy in thought, plain in
person, suffering in feeling; passion will have been extinguished in
your heart, the bright light of your eye will have become quenched. They
whose society you seek will flee you as a whited sepulcher, whose
darksome depths repel every glance. Henri, I speak as a friend,
seriously, wisely; listen to me."

The young man remained unmoved and silent. The cardinal hoped that he
had touched his feelings, and had shaken his resolution.

"Try some other resource, Henri. Carry this poisoned shaft, which
rankles in your bosom, about with you wherever you may go, in the
turmoil of life; cherish its companionship at our fetes and banquets;
imitate the wounded deer, which flees through the thickets and brakes
and forests, in its efforts to draw out from its body the arrow which is
rankling in the wound; sometimes the arrow falls."

"For pity's sake," said Henri, "do not persist any more; what I solicit
is not the